“There are three notable events in the life of any individual: Birth, Death, and Judgement. Birth is joyously celebrated, Death is sad but honoured; both come with a lot of ‘fanfare’, but Judgement seems to be largely ignored; though it is the one event that weighs in the eternal balances, the activities littered between Birth and Death. We must then carry this consciousness, even if it is in the name of selfish self-preservation, that Judgement is as sure and ubiquitous as Birth and Death are; and that it is the solemnest and severest event of life.” – Makafui.
The mysteries of divine irony:
That an ancient symbol of shame
In one day became the ultimate symbol of hope;
The price was a life so pure that shame fled.
The crying cross that weeps blood,
Lamenting at the silence of the Saints –
Silent in comfort, but powerfully verbal in persecution –
Blood-marked men wrung through the wheels of suffering
Their robes made white by a thorough washing in Blood.
On rocky shores I pitched my tent
She stayed the waves, she clasped the earth
Vicars were made of men, faint but helped
Light abounds in this mystic cove
Life and dignity fill my pews
My Holy Orders were regal
And Hades’ gates could not prevail.
Sing me a song that sounds like the cry of my soul.
I don’t have the voice or the skill,
But I’ll like to hear my soul’s song outside the confines of my being;
So please, If you can, sing me that song, that keeps stirring me up.
I don’t want to be the only one with these goosebumps,
Or the euphoria and the resonating sympathies of these chords.
“There is never a right or appropriate time to halt the building up of faith; to walk with God is to walk by faith; to stop building up your faith would be dangerously close to halting your walk with God.” – Makafui.
I’m unqualified to write about fatherhood,
I have enough trouble just being a son;
Yet the thought is one that weighs heavily on the mind…
I realise I’m caught in a cycle where sons become fathers:
How would it feel to have a son today,
Who treats me like I treated my father yesterday,
And treats his son tomorrow like I treat him today – blessing or curse?
“We are in a time and season where ‘wearing a mask’ is no longer just a philosophical or psychological or social euphemism, but a socio-medical necessity and in some places a legal injunction. What a transformation there would be though, if the putting on of physical masks connoted the taking off of the invisible masks that men have been known to wear to hide insecurities and cover-up hurts and propagate cruelties. Then maybe we would see each other for who we are, get the help we need, and heal; Then maybe we would all see that we are all not that different from each other – that we are all frail and insecure by ourselves, and that our masks, irrespective of size or design, have done nothing but deceive us – giving us false security and offering us up to vain gods; Then maybe we will all learn that only by baring ourselves before He who made us, are we made whole.” – Makafui.
Take me to the Place where the saints gather,
To the convention of the just made perfect;
Where the clouds of glory settle and tongues of fire dance;
To the atmosphere so pure that I come undone to be refined.
It is where David dances and Solomon sits to be taught;
A place whose gates Sampson’s strength does not qualify him to guard.
When the past, long thought dead, suddenly becomes the present…
Of course, it’s usually the unwanted past that creeps up – go figure…
So sly, playing possum, waiting for that atmosphere – the crack in the psyche.
For it knows, that with the pressures of life come cracks and fractures;
And oftentimes the more rigid the structures, the deeper the damage,
The louder the snaps, and the more forceful the bursts.